Realms of Valor - James Lowder [118]
arranged the plants and made it look as much as possible as if the ground had not been disturbed. Satisfied that Drollo's toys would remain undiscovered, the druid strode south toward the Reach. He intended to have a chat with the sea elves of Mercea about selling water spiders to people who haven't the foggiest idea of how to use them. The Curse of Tegea Troy Denning From the look of things, times were hard for the Inn of the High Terrace. Although the supper hour had long since arrived, the veranda was deserted. In the center of each rough-hewn table sat an overturned bread basket and an old wine bottle filled with wilted poppies. The chairs were scattered haphazardly around the patio, as if the person who had last swept the floor had seen no purpose in returning them to their rightful positions. “It appears you haven't had many patrons of late,” Adon observed. “Let's just say that tonight the best table in the house is yours,” grumbled the innkeeper, leading the way across the patio. Myron Zenas, for that was his name, was a brawny man as hairy as a bear, with steady black eyes, a huge nose lined with red veins, and a beard that hung down to his chest. “Does your trouble have anything to do with the curse on Tegea?” Adon asked. Myron stopped. “It's not my fault,” he snapped. “Who told you it was?” “No one,” said Corene. Like Adon, the young woman belonged to the Church of Mystra, though she was a novice and he was a cleric of high standing. The black-handled flail hanging from her belt seemed curiously at odds with her golden-haired beauty, for she had brown doelike eyes, a button nose, and the gleaming smile of a goddess. “In fact, we've heard very little about the evil afflicting Tegea, save that you need help.” “It's best that you don't know more,” the innkeeper said, an expression of relief crossing his face. He led the way to the far corner, where the veranda overlooked the entire village. “Tegea's problems aren't your concern.” “We've come a long way to offer help,” Adon objected. “Then you've wasted your journey,” Myron replied. “Even if there was anything you could do-and there isn't-our village's grief is its own. The last thing we need is a pair of outsiders sticking their noses into our misery.” With that, the innkeeper moved two chairs to the table and waved his guests to their seats. “I'll send your meal out.” As Myron returned to the kitchen, Corene whispered, “This is going to be harder than we thought.” “Not at all,” Adon said, removing his mace from its sling so he could sit comfortably. “The people of Tegea will be happy for our help-once we've won their confidence.” “And how are you going to do that?” demanded the novice.
“I'll think of a way,” Adon said. He looked out over the village he had come to rescue. Located in the southern reaches of the Dragonjaw Mountains, Tegea seemed idyllic enough. The mountains surrounding it were covered with towering cypresses, as slender and pointed as spearheads. Closer to the village, the terraced slopes supported huge groves of strangely gnarled olive trees. The warped boughs were laden with silvery leaves that danced in the evening breeze and seemed to whisper the soft songs of pastoral life. In the town itself, the muffled clang of a goatbell occasionally echoed off a stone wall, but no other sound rose from the narrow lanes running through the labyrinth of whitewashed huts. On the far side of the village, the local duke's dusky castle squatted upon the edge of a thousand-foot cliff. Its craggy towers were silhouetted against the distant waters of the Dragonmere Sea, where the sun was just sinking below the turquoise horizon. Normally Adon would have been staying in the citadel instead of the local inn. As an important cleric in the Church of Mysteries, he could expect most nobles to extend their hospitality to him. However, the patriarch had been warned that the duke of Tegea disliked all priests, so he hadn't bothered